Love With the Perfect Scoundrel (32 page)

“Then I want to see him fifty feet from his cell,” she said, the tension crumbling her fortitude more than a little. “Oh please, sir, tell me how he fares. Tell me what I must do to see him. Is it money you want?” She thrust out her reticule and the man began to mop his florid face.

“Well, fer the moment, ’e be in the hold, as we’re a bit overcocked. The next session at Old Bailey starts a fortnight after the New Year, yer ladyship. If you’ll pardon me for sayin’, ma’am, you’re far too foine a lady to be crawling about ’ere, but I’ll tell ye something.” He motioned her closer with his fat fingers.

She leaned in despite his fetid breath. “Yes?”

“If you’re determined, you’d be better served going to the man who paid the runners to find ’im. Rowland Manning be ’is name—of Manning’s Livery—yer ladyship. Oh, and ma’am?” His voice was barely audible.

“Yes?”

“You’d best be advised to bring that with you.” He pushed away her reticule and winked. “Sometimes blokes who bring charges can be persuaded to see reason—although Mr. Manning promises to be a tough ’un.”

Grace nodded once. “Sir, I thank you. And I shall mention to the magistrate how very kind and organized you are here, Mr….?”

“Fawkes,” the man said with a rickety picket-fence smile.

“Mr. Fawkes. But I should also warn you that if my acquaintance is harmed in any way during his stay here, I will personally come to condemn you and anyone else who has a hand in it.” She drew herself up as tall as she could. “Do I make myself perfectly clear, Mr. Fawkes?”

“
Perfectlee
, ma’am.” The man’s smile grew as Grace expertly transferred a hidden sum to his hand.

Lord, she was taking to the life of bribery with sinful ease. Would wagering and thievery be far behind? She prayed to God she would have the nerve to see this through.

Not two hundred yards beyond several reinforced locked doors and fifty feet below street level, Michael prayed to God just the opposite.

T
he sound of water dripping on stone just inches from where Michael’s head lay was driving him mad, but not nearly as mad as his worry for Grace.

God, she was too innocent of the ways of man. He greatly feared she would go to Rowland. His hands half clenched at the thought. But there was no fight left in him. A gang of gaol keepers had seen to that with extraordinarily effective methods. Experimentally, Michael tried to ease open his mouth and pain ricocheted in his head. At least his jaw still worked and he could see. But then again the jailers had probably left him his sight so he could see the dank reality of the here and now. That, or he was too bloody tall for them to reach his eyes. His knees and torso were another matter altogether.

All around, the sounds and stench of imprisonment radiated. He guessed more than fifty men were squashed into the holding cell.

All at once, a small face hovered above his.

“Don’t bother. They took it all,” Michael growled through clenched teeth.

“You’re him—the nob,” a boy’s voice said, with obvious anger.

“You can see well enough to know I’m no bloody nob.”

“Nay. You be the nob what had the runners waiting for me at the foundling ’ome.”

Michael closed his eyes against the pain in his skull. “James?” he whispered.

“I should kick you.”

“Go right ahead, lad. Just do it on the top of my head will you?”

“You’re bloomin’ daft, sir.”

“Know it,” he returned, conserving his words. “James?”

“Yes?”

Michael noticed the boy sounded exhausted. “I’m sorry I asked you to risk meeting me. You’d probably be far away from here if you’d not listened to me.”

Silence reigned for a while before James replied sagely, “It was only a matter of time ’afore they’d ’a got me. At least you’re here now an’ maybe we can trade turns at watchin’ an’ sleepin’.”

Michael forced himself into a seated position, ignoring the never-ending points of blinding pain that radiated from his frame. “Lay your head here, James. I swear I won’t let you down this time.”

The second hackney cab was far harder for Grace to find. She walked six blocks from Newgate in the miserable sleet, her cloak and gloves barely able to keep out the wet cold. She arrived in front of the offices of the venerable solicitors who had guarded, tended, and grown the vast Sheffield fortune for generations.

“Mr. Williamson.” Grace nodded as she was ushered before a tall, thin gentleman of nearly white hair, who bowed deeply.

“What a lovely surprise, Lady Sheffield. I am honored you thought to condescend to visit our offices, but you know I am always available to come to you, madam.”

“Thank you, sir. But, this is a matter of grave urgency and I was hoping, well…” It all sounded so awful, so lurid, she couldn’t force it past her lips.

Robert Williamson cleared his throat and indicated a chair across from his massive desk. “Lady Sheffield? Please permit me to offer whatever sort of confidence you might desire, ma’am, such as I did with Lord Sheffield. What is it? Perhaps a gaming debt or an unpleasant business transaction of some sort? I am at your disposal…with discretion.” The concern reflected in the gentleman’s gray eyes nearly cracked Grace’s tightly held emotions.

“I would ask you to come with me straightaway. I have business which cannot be delayed. I will need to have a contract drawn up if all goes well. And yes,” she said, training her gaze on a point beyond his thin shoulders, “I will need it done with the utmost discretion.”

Mr. Williamson nodded, and when learning she had not brought her carriage or her maid, sent her a brooding look but, gratefully, said not a word. The elderly man, whom Grace received for quarterly meetings at Sheffield House, arranged for his carriage, gathered his affairs and accompanied her to the Warwick Lane entrance.

Grace leaned back against the plain but gleaming black squabs of the solicitor’s carriage after murmuring their direction. She silently wondered how she would convince Mr. Manning to release Michael.

“Mr. Williamson?”

He immediately leaned forward. “Yes, Lady Sheffield?”

She licked her lips. “May we review my fortune at present?”

“Your annual interest or your entire fortune? Including an estimate of the unentailed Sheffield House?”

“Yes. I mean absolutely everything. Has there been any significant change since last we met, sir?”

He blanched and then chose his words with care. “No, madam. We applaud your conservative nature, and that of the late Lord Sheffield, and well, there is relatively little change. Your fortune, together with Sheffield House, which might be valued roughly at twenty thousand, unless you consider the paintings, the furnishings—” He stopped. “Pardon me, Lady Sheffield, but may I offer my—”

“No,” she said politely, “thank you, sir.” She said not another word as they turned a corner to drive the last few blocks toward Manning’s Livery. Mr. Robert Williamson was about to be rudely awakened by her new incautious ways. The solicitor’s team slowed to a walk.

Grace’s heart plummeted as she studied the vast, sprawling enterprise, far grander than she had envisioned. Three immense stone structures of elegant, classical lines fronted a series of other buildings—stables and enclosures—teeming with horses. Why, this was many times the size of the famed Tattersall’s at Hyde Park Corner, although this address was not nearly so fine.

“Oh, I had no idea,” she murmured to herself.

“Magnificent, isn’t it? Manning hired John Nash, himself, to design it. Of course, it’s not quite finished yet, but when it’s complete it will rival the grandest liveries and riding schools in all the world,” Mr. Williamson informed. “May I ask if madam is considering purchasing a new team? May I offer to negotiate for you, since, as you must be aware, ladies are not generally admitted to, uh, places such as—”

“Mr. Williamson, thank you, but I would ask you to request a private audience for me with Mr. Manning. You may tell him it is extremely urgent and it concerns Mr. Michael Ranier. I shall wait inside your carriage, sir.”

He looked at her steadily before tipping his hat, and making his way toward the open enclosure with many columns along the three sides. A marble fountain in the center stood empty and silent in the cold winter afternoon, long shadows dragging on the corners of the imposing structures before her. Grace felt faint and she realized that amid the turmoil of the day, she had had naught but two bites of toast that morning.

Oh God, this place was not at all what she had expected. She had thought Manning’s Livery would be sprawling, yes, but rickety and unkempt. Slovenly, even. This boded far, far worse.

Mr. Williamson braved the gusting cold walk back to the carriage. “Take my arm, Lady Sheffield. Mr. Manning said he would be honored to see you. Today’s auction and primary business of the day has concluded, ma’am.” Grace nodded and accepted Mr. Williamson’s support.

Two men dressed in dark blue and gold livery flanked the inside entrance as a third walked forward and indicated that Mr. Manning awaited her in the next chamber. When Mr. Williamson would enter with her, Grace halted.

“Sir, I would ask you to wait for me here.”

His faded eyes sharpened. “But Lady Sh—”

“I’m sorry. I insist. But I shall require your aid shortly.”

Before he could say another word, Grace strode forward, past the paneled doors, into a majestic chamber. The ornate door closed out the rest of the world with solid finality.

Beyond the bronze figurines of horses, and an endless stream of past and present champions captured within the gilt frames of masters, a solitary man sat at an orderly, large wooden desk without ornamentation. As Grace approached, he raised his head, and she nearly stopped in surprise.

The man was charismatic in a brutal fashion. He could not be much older than forty, yet his thick raven hair was shot through with startling silver streaks. That barely tamed hair, his bronzed skin, and pale green eyes combined to radiate ruthless power and keen intelligence. He slowly stood, and Grace was nearly overwhelmed by his presence.

Oh God.

“Lady Sheffield?”

She nodded and offered her hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed the back of her hand. “A pleasure, Countess.”

She had meant to provoke him, humiliate him, and, if necessary, beg him to release Michael. What she had not planned to do was be overawed by a man who had done everything in his power to destroy the one man who meant everything to her. “Actually, this will most likely not be a pleasure, sir, for either one of us.”

He chuckled. “Oh, but you are mistaken. It is not often a beautiful lady such as you condescends to visit a mucked-out male bastion. Shall we?” He indicated a bow window facing the neatly manicured rear grounds.

Two new leather armchairs faced each other on either side of a low table and Grace seated herself in one, feeling immediately dwarfed by the overtly masculine furniture. Casually, Mr. Manning pinched together two crystal glasses on a side board and brought forward a bottle of brandy as well. He raised his brows. “So sorry I cannot offer you tea, Lady Sheffield, but I do believe this might be more in keeping with the tenor of our meeting, don’t you agree?” His tone and smile brimmed with intimacy. “May I?”

“Thank you, but, no. I’ve come to discuss—”

“Oh, but Lady Sheffield, I insist.” He poured great dollops of amber spirits into the two glasses and raised his own to make a toast. She reluctantly followed suit.

He grinned, one side of his smile rising a bit higher than the other. “What say you? Shall we toast Michael, possessor of far too many aliases? Dare I hope that he is finally to bring me good fortune instead of bad?” The man had the utter audacity to wink.

Grace suppressed the urge to toss the drink in his face and instead swallowed the contents. To her credit, she did not reveal the fact that a flood of fire had just entered her throat.

“Oh,
very
good, Lady Sheffield. You are a revelation, Countess.” He reached for one of the many newspapers on the low table. “And here I was expecting a wilting, tearful dab of a miss…‘
Lady S, she of the recent spate of ruptured matrimonial engagements.’”

So much for polite small talk. “Mr. Manning, precisely how much money will it require for you to withdraw your complaints?”

“My dear Lady Sheffield, how very vulgar. And you a proper member of the ton and all. Are you attempting to buy my integrity? A man’s word is everything, is it not?”

With a start, Grace remembered Michael saying the Mannings had taught him everything about dishonesty, cruelty, envy, and something else, which eluded her. She pondered her answer as she rearranged her gown’s skirting. She was no good at wit and innuendo. She was no good at negotiation or compromise. He would either take her money and release Michael or not.

Grace cleared her throat again. “Mr. Manning, you and I both know Michael Ranier is the Earl of Wallace. As soon as this is brought to the attention of the House of Lords—indeed, the Prince Regent himself—he will be released.”

“I would not wager on it.” He scratched his jaw. “I daresay the criminally minded Mr. Ranier has little if any proof of his identity now, does he? Other than his apparent uncanny resemblance to the former earl. And, my dear Lady Sheffield, I suppose it only fair to tell you that half the lords in Parliament owe me favors and the other half owe me substantial blunt. I did say a man’s word is everything, did I not? And the Prince Regent? Well, suffice it to say that I supply him with some of his more
interesting
amusements. Shall I tell you about them?”

Her imagination brimming with horrid ideas, Grace did not dare to ask for clarification. Instead, she used her last bargaining chip. “I am prepared to offer you twenty-five thousand pounds in exchange for your signature on a document clearing Michael Ranier of any and all murder charges.”

“Hmmm. He’s worth only twenty-five, is he? That’s vaguely insulting, don’t you think? Then again that lovely auburn-haired vixen, Miss Givan, offered but a pittance in comparison. Perhaps if I wait a bit more other women will appear with even higher bribes in the offing.”